“Awful beauty puts on all its charms ;' and most terrible among them the redoubtable lock, nourished by the nymph "To the destruction of mankind," 9 (though momentary) realization of the near "When are we to "a difficult Hyperbole is the natural resource of contempt; indeed, through this means alone can it be judiciously expressed, or perhaps expressed at all. For contempt as an active feeling is incompatible with a calm dispassionate judgment, and rushes into violent injurious comparisons. Hence the whole vocabulary of insult; and it is astonishing the appetite the world has for this exercise of imagination, and how unduly, as we think, to the offices of invisible genii, some of the great masters of the art have been esti whom Brew fiercest tempests in the wintry main ;' while others, as potent over nature, "Steal from rainbows ere they drop in showers A brighter wash;" or concentrate their cares on a lap-dog"Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock." Again, the combat of beaux and belles "While through the press enraged Thalestris And scatters death around from both her eyes, But the whole poem is an example. The hyperbole of wits compels us to a supreme mated. What would "Junius " be without his hyperbolical detraction, which the world of his day gloated over? Dip into these famous Letters, and pages and pages of coarse contempt make us wonder at the taste of our fathers. "Whether you have talents (he writes to the Duke of Grafton) to support you at a crisis of such difficulty and danger, should long since have been considered. Judging truly of your disposition, you have perhaps mistaken the extent of your capacity. Good faith and folly have so long been received as synonymous terms that the reverse of the proposition has grown into credit, and every villain fancies himself a man of abilities. It is the apprehension of your friends, my lord, that you have drawn some hasty conclusion of this sort, and that a partial reliance upon your moral character has betrayed you beyond the depth of your understanding. ... Lord Bute found no resource of dependence or security in the proud imposing superiority of Lord Chatham's abilities, the shrewd, inflexible judgment of Mr. Grenville, nor in the mild but determined in egrity of Lord Rockingham. His views and situation required a creature void of all these properties; and he was forced to go through every division, resolution, composition, and refinement of political chemistry, before he happily arrived at the caput mortuum of vitriol in your grace. Flat and insipid in your retired state, but, brought into action, you become vitriol again," &c. &c. &c. This Brobdignagian strain took the reader of a day which had been used to see contempt one of the favorite vehicles for wit. Nobody passed muster who had not miscalled somebody in swelling and noisy periods. For us, we can't admire one sort of sound hearty vituperation much more than another. There is a decided likeness, for example, between all this talk of vitriol and villany, and the mode and terms adopted by a certain virago, celebrated by De Quincey as affording diversion to Coleridge and his set, to express her contempt of her husband Junius allowing his public to read the letter, she courting hers through the superscription. Doubtless because her husband had ceased to open her letters, she hit upon the plan of expressing her opinion of him upon the cover, and would address him through the post-office in such periphrases as, "To that supreme of rogues that looks the hangdog that he is. Doctor (such a doctor!) Andrew Bell!" Or, "To that ape of apes, and knave of knaves, who is recorded to have once paid a debt-but a small one, you may be sure in fact it was 44d. Had it been on the other side of 6d., he must have died before he could have achieved so dreadful a sacrifice." An effective hyperbole certainly, as well relished probably by its readers, and inflicting as sharp a sting on its victim, as the more laboured invective which precedes it. There is force in both the stilted and the grotesque. They are provoked by a real need of expression in opposition to the flatter vituperation to which the ears of our generation are accus⚫ tomed. where by no means the worst hyperboles The and Sydney Smith of those flashes of silence which made Macaulay's talk so much more agreeable than it had been before they illuminated his eloquence. We began by commenting on the popular tendency to exaggeration in familiar discourse, the endeavour of our sprightly youth to impart vivacity to their style by the The grotesque in all its branches is made use of a tried and universally popular forup of hyperbole. Our youth is trained to it mula. There we think them on a wrong in the pantomime, where alone is any delib-tack. By all means, we say, let them be erate attempt made to produce the figure forcible, and hyperbolically forcible if they visibly and in action; though we may be used enough to undesigned and serious monstrosities of disproportion, typified in the idolatry of that ancient people who worshipped a fly and sacrificed an ox to it; or in the crime of that learned, and amiable as learned, French antiquary, who murdered his best friend to become possessed of a medal, without which his collection was incomplete. It is the inexhaustible resource of the circus, will; but what we have desired, and bring to their notice, is, that all hyperbole that really pleases is an immediate effort of the fancy, that there is no common stock of hyperboles with a monopoly to please, andthat those who affect them, if they would win credit, must follow Acre's system with his oaths, and strike them off fresh and appropriate to the occasion. CHAPTER XV. IN THE TWILIGHT AT LAMBSWOLD. Mrs. Busby had cleaned down and rubbed up the old staircase to shining pitch. The studio, too, looked very clean and cool and comfortable. Everybody was away. IT seemed that there were many things Mr. and Mrs. Hervey Butler were at Brighof which Fontaine was unconscious. Cath- ton, and Mr. Charles Butler had not been erine never dared to trust him with the se-up in town for some time; Mr. Beamish cret of Dick's engagement to Reine Chrétien. had desired all his letters to be forwarded This was too valuable a piece of gossip to to Durham; he was coming back as soon be confided to the worthy maire's indiscre- as he could leave his father. tion. The country people talked a little; but they were all used to Mademoiselle Chrétien's old independent ways, and after Dick had been gone some weeks they appeared for a time to trouble their heads no more about him. Her knight in ancient times would have gone out valiantly, prepared to conquer dragons, fierce giants, monsters of land and sea. The only fierce dragon in Butler's way was the kind old man at Lambswold; and yet, somehow, he thought he would rather encounter many dragons, poisonous darts, fiery tails and all. But then he thought again of Reine standing in the sunset glory, in all her sweet nobility, and a gentle look came into Dick's own face. Women who have the rare gift of great beauty may well cherish it, and be grateful to Heaven. With the unconscious breath of a moment, they can utter all that is in them. They have said it at once, for ever, while others are struggling for words, toiling with effort, trying in vain to break the bonds which fetter them so cruelly. What sermon, what text, is like that of a tender heart, speaking silently in its own beauty and purity, and conscious only of the meaning of its own sincerity? What words can speak so eloquently as the clear sweet eyes looking to all good, all love, all trust, encouraging with their tender smile? Queen's Walk did not look so deserted as the other more fashionable parts of London. The dirty little children had not left town. The barges were sailing by; the garden-door was set wide open. The housekeeper let him in, smiling, in her best cap. Mr. Beamish was away, she told him, in Durham with his father, who was recovering, poor gentleman. There were a great many letters waiting on the 'all-table, she said. Dick pulled a long face at the pile of cheaplooking envelopes directed very low down, with single initial-letters upon the seals. Everybody knows the grateful, restful feeling of coming home after a holiday; crowded hotels, fierce landladies' extortions, excursions, all disappear up the chimney; everything looks clean and comfortable; the confusion of daily life is put to rights for a time, and one seems to start afresh. Mrs. Busby had had the carpets beat, she said, and dinner would be quite ready at six. Dick, who was not sorry to have an excuse to stay where he was and to put off the announcement he had in his mind, wrote a few words to Lambswold, saying that he would come down in a week or two, as soon as he had finished a picture he had brought back with him from Tracy. 66 For some weeks Dick worked very hard; harder than he had ever done in his life before. I suppose the figures upon my canvas have come there somehow out of my brain," he wrote to Reine, "but they seem to have an odd distinct life of their own, so that I am sometimes almost frightened at my own performance." The picture he was painting was a melancholy one; a wash of brown transparent sea, a mist of grey sky, and some black-looking figures coming across the shingle, carrying a drowned man. A woman and a child were plodding dully alongside. It was unlike any of the pictures Butler had ever painted before. There was no attempt at detail, everything was vague and undetermined, but the waves came springing in, and it seemed as if there was a sunlight behind the mist. . . Sometimes he fell into utter despondency over his work, plodding on as he did at it day after day with no one to speak to, or to encourage him; but he struggled on, and at last said to himself one day, that with all its faults and incompleteness, there was more true stuff in it than in anything he had yet produced. One day Dick received a short note in his uncle Charles's careful handwriting: "When are you coming down here?" the old man wrote. "I have not been well, or I should have been up to town. I suppose. you could paint here as well as in your studio or under Matilda's auspices? but this place is dismal, and silent, and empty, and has no such attractions as those which, from all accounts, Tracy seems to hold out. So I shall not be surprised if I do not see you. Mundy takes very good care of me. If I really want you I will send for you. Yours, - C. B." "What has he heard?" thought Dick, when he read the note. "Who can have told him anything? Is he vexed, or only out of spirits?" Butler felt he must go of course. It was tiresome, now that he was just getting into the swing, and doing the first piece of work which was worth the canvas on which it was painted. As for taking his picture there, Dick was more afraid of his uncle's sarcastic little compliments than of any amount of criticism; and, besides, there was no knowing what might be the result of their meeting. He would go down and pay him a visit, and tell him his story, and then if he were not turned out for ever, it would be time enough to see about transporting the canvas. Dick took his ticket in a somewhat injured frame of mind. All the way down in the railway carriage, he was rehearsing the scene that was to take place; - he took a perverse pleasure in going over it again and again. Sometimes he turned himself out of the doors, sometimes he conjured up Charles Butler's harsh little sarcastic laugh, sneering and disowning him. Once he saw himself a traitor abandoning Reine for the sake of the bribe: but no, that was impossible; that was the only thing which could not happen. When he got to the station he had to hire the fly, as he was not expected, and to drive along the lanes. They were damp and rotting with leaves; grey mists came rolling along the furrows; a few belated birds were singing an autumnal song. They say the old gentleman's a-breaking up fast," said the flyman, cheerfully, as he dismounted at the foot of one of the muddy hills. "He's not an old man, by no means yet, but my missis she see him go by last Sunday for night, and says she to me just so, Why,' says she, 'old Mr. Butler ain't half the man he wer' in the springtime.'" just been writing to you. My master is very poorly, I am sorry to say ly indeed." very poor Old Mr. Butler was alone in the morning-room when his nephew came in. He had had a fire lighted, and he was sitting, wrapped in an old-fashioned palm dressinggown, in a big chair drawn close up to the fender. The tall windows were unshuttered still, and a great cloud of mist was hanging like a veil over the landscape. "Well, my dear boy," said a strange yet familiar voice, "I didn't expect you so soon." It was like some very old man speaking and holding out an eager trembling hand. As old Butler spoke, he shut up and put into his pocket a little old brown prayerbook in which he had been reading. Dick, who had been picturing imaginary pangs to himself all the way coming down, now found how different a real aching pain is to the visionary emotions we all inflict upon ourselves occasionally. It was with a real foreboding that he saw that some terrible change for the worse had come over the old man. His face was altered, his voice faint and sharp, and his hand was burning. "Why didn't you send for me, my dear uncle Charles? I never knew I only got your letter this morning. If I had thought for one instant. 66 My note was written last week," said Charles. "I kept it back on purpose. You were hard at work, weren't you? Dick said nothing. He had got tight hold of the trembling, burning hand. "I'm very bad," said old Charles, looking up at the young fellow. "You won't have long to wait for my old slippers." Don't, my dear, dear old boy," cried Dick. "Pah!" said old Butler, "your own turn will come sooner or later. You won't find it difficult to go. I think you won't," said the old broken man, patting Dick's hand gently. Dick was so shocked by the suddenness of the blow he was scarcely able to believe it. "Have you seen any one man asked. ?" the young Dick could not help feeling uncomfortable; he was not in the best of spirits; the still, close afternoon, with the rotting vege- "I've seen Hickson, and this morning, tation all about, and the clouds bearing Dr. de M― came down to me," Charles heavily down, predisposed him to a gloomy Butler answered, as if it was a matter of view of things. They drove in at the well-every-day occurrence. "He says it's seknown gates. rious, so I told Mundy to write to you." "I hope I shall find my uncle better," he said, trying to speak hopefully, as he got down at the hall-door, and ran up the oldfashioned steps. Mundy opened the door. "Oh, Mr. Richard," he said, "I have Old Charles seemed quite cheerful and in good spirits; he described his symptoms, and seemed to like talking of what might be- he even made little jokes. "You ungrateful boy," he said, smiling, "there is many a young man who would be thankful for his good luck, instead of putting on a scared face like yours. Well, what have you been about? It was horrible, Dick tried to answer and to speak as usual, but he turned sick once, and bit his lips, and looked away, when his uncle, after a question or two, began telling about some scheme he wanted carried out upon the estate. "Won't you send for Uncle Hervey," Dick said gravely," or for my aunt?" "Time enough, time enough," the other answered. "They make such a talking. I want to put matters straight first. I've got Baxter coming here this afternoon." Mr. Baxter was the family attorney. Dick had for the minute forgotten all about what he had come intending to say. Now he looked in the fire, and suddenly told himself that if he had to tell his uncle what had been on his mind all these last months, the sooner it was done the better. But now, at such a crisis—it was an impossibility. So the two sat by the fire in the waning light of the short autumn day. The night was near at hand, Dick thought. There was a ring at the bell, and some one came in from the hall. It was not the lawyer, but Dr. Hickson again, and it seemed like a reprieve to the young man to have a few minutes longer to make up his mind. He followed the doctor out into the hall. His grave face was not reassuring. Dick could see it by the light of the old lattice-window. "Tell me honestly," he said, "what you think of my uncle's state. "I never even heard he was ill till this morning." My dear Mr. Richard," said Dr. Hickson," we must hope for the best. Dr. de Magreed with me in considering the case very serious. I cannot take upon myself to disguise this from you. Your uncle himself has but little idea of recovering; his mind is as yet wonderfully clear and collected... and there may be little change for weeks, but I should advise you to see that any arrangements . . . Dear me! dear me !" The little overworked doctor hurried down the steps and rode away, all out of spirits, and leaving scant comfort behind him. He was thinking of all that there was to make life easy and prosperous in that big, well-ordered house, and of his own little struggling home, with his poor Polly and her six babies, who would have scarcely enough to put bread in their mouths if he were to be taken. He was thinking that it was a lonely ending to a lonely life; with only interested people watchers, waiting by the old man's death-bed. Dr. Hickson scarcely did justice to Dick, who had spoken in his usual quiet manner, who had made no professions, but who was pacing up and down the gravel sweep, backwards and forwards and round and round, bareheaded, in the chill dark, not thinking of inheritance or money, but only of the kind, forbearing benefactor to whom he owed so much, and towards whom he felt like a traitor in his heart. He went back into the morning-room, where Mundy had lighted some candles, and he forced himself to look hopeful, but he nearly broke down when Charles began saying in his faint, cheerful voice, "I've made a most unjust will. Baxter is bringing it for me to sign this evening. I have left almost everything to a scapegrace nephew of mine, who will, I'm afraid, never make a fortune for himself. Shall I throw in the Gainsborough ?" he added, nodding at the lady who was smiling as usual out of her frame. "You will appreciate her some day." There was a moment's silence. Dick flushed up, and the veins of his temples began to throb, and a sort of cloud came before his eyes. He must speak. He could not let his uncle do this, when, if he knew all, he would for certain feel and act so differently. He tried to thank him, but the words were too hard to speak. He would have given much to keep silence, but he could not somehow. Charles wondered at his agitation, and watched him moving uneasily. Suddenly he burst out. "Uncle Charles," said Dick at last, with a sort of choke for breath, "don't ask why; leave me nothing except - except the Gainsborough, if you will. I musn't take your money "What the devil do you mean?" said the old man, frightened, and yet trying to laugh. "What have you been doing?" "I've done no wrong," Dick said, looking up, with the truth in his honest eyes, and speaking very quick. I don't want to bother you now. I want to do something you might not approve. I had come down to tell you, and I couldn't let make you your will without warning . . . The young fellow had turned quite pale, but the horrible moment was past, the temptation to silence was overcome. In all Dick's life this was one of the hardest straits he ever encountered. It was not the money; covetousness was not one of his faults, but he said to himself that he should have sacrificed faith, honour, anything, everything, sooner than have had the cruelty to inflict one pang at such a time. But |